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Sunday, 31 August 2014

The Gravedigger's Precipice

The
Gravedigger's Precipice

Despite
the rain, Matthew whistled while he worked; a lilting, cheerful melody that fled
across the trimmed grass, over the stone wall and into the dark, silent trees. He'd earn a sixpence for the morning's work,
and another two pennies when the Priest had said his piece. The town would pay
for this one; he might have earned more from a grieving family, but at least he
was alone with his work and unhindered by the trouble of being social.

His
spade cut easily through the damp turf. With
practised ease he scythed through earth worms and roots, deeper and deeper,
watching out for bones and body parts: this was a well-used section of the
graveyard.

He
paid no attention to the slack body on the cart, though he did glance over to
check Bessie every now and then, each time finding her contentedly cropping
grass, also unconcerned by the rain or the company.

The
rain fell softly with a promise of spring. Matthew, by the nature of his job,
worked in all weathers and he preferred rain to ground iron-hard with frost when
every strike of the spade sent bolts of agony through his wrists and shoulders,
or the soft deadly snow with the bitter cold nipping at his heels like a pack
of wolves. He hated the heat worst of all, when the ground set like stone and
his days were filled with pain and dust and tears.

The
body lay on the cart, shrouded in a length of old hessian sacking Matthew kept
for the purpose. Not that the sight of a body, whatever its state, troubled
him, he'd buried old, young, family, friend and foe, but what had been done to
this body was not pretty, and sometimes townsfolk would come to visit the
graveyard and the sight might offend the ladies. He had a length of good dark
cloth he used on other days, other bodies; he was careful not to let family and
friends discover their lost ones beneath an old grain sack. A bit of show made
sense in other ways, a chance of a better tip and he took care to avoid making
enemies. There was no telling how grief might take some people.

It
was not just grief made locals difficult. A town this size should not keep a
gravedigger so well occupied. Some said it was being so deep in the forest
brought a darkness to the place that found its way into folks hearts. Some
whispered that it was being so far from other towns let folk so inclined bend
the law to suit their fancy, and with no one to gainsay them.

Matthew
said nothing. He saw too often what could come of a careless word.

He
worked on in an easy rhythm, stopping every so often to ease his back and check
on Bessie. The morning passed, the hole grew deeper and the neat pile of earth
to one side rose higher.

Matthew
was thinking about lunch. He'd bread and cheese on the cart, but if he waited
there'd be the last of stew at the inn, thick and tasty. It'd be quiet by then,
no one to trouble him. The bread and
cheese would keep for another day. And he'd earned a pint. He licked his lips
at the thought then, warned by some sixth sense, raised his head. A moment ago
he'd been alone, now a man was standing at the edge of the trees, just beyond
the graveyard wall.

"Blood
and bones." Matthew jerked fully upright and a shovelful of earth flew
astray. He squinted through the rain and saw the man was a stranger. "Good
day, friend."

Considering
the pleasantries attended to, he was about to turn back to his work when a blur
of motion stopped him. The man was across the stone wall in a bound. He came on
between new and tumbled gravestones. Tall and pale, his body gnarled with
muscle like roots, beneath a long overcoat; dark lank hair crept below a battered
top hat. He moved with a speed that left Matthew open-mouthed.

Before
Matthew could blink, he was standing chest deep in another man's grave staring helplessly
up at the newcomer. He clutched the spade close across his chest. "Can I
help you, sir?" he asked with a practised subservient whine. The man was
not townsfolk but Matthew had an eye for darkness.

Large
brown eyes studied him. They might be kind eyes if you did not see the
emptiness behind and the twist of cruelty on thin lips. The man turned away
without a word and walked to the cart. Matthew watched, sweat prickled and
chilled along his spine. He had a box set close by to aid him climbing out of
the hole, but he stood frozen and watched.

The
man lifted the hessian sack.

The
body beneath had lost an eye and most of the left side of his jaw, slammed to
pulp by hobnailed boots. The other side of the face retained its features,
though patched and bruised to the colour of ripe plums. The man reached a hand
to catch the slack jaw and turn the face.Matthew knew what the corpse looked like; he watched the man's face.

Releasing
the jaw, the man tugged the sack off the stranger's body. They'd taken the
boots, belt and trousers. The shirt was bloody and ripped too bad to bother
with, but it offered little dignity. It was common practice with strangers who
died badly. Matthew had no part of it, this time. Not that he'd refuse the
chance of pickings, allowed the opportunity.

"He
was wanted." He offered, the whine unintentionally lifting his voice to a plea.
"His name's Bad Jim Moresby. There's a bounty."

The
man turned from the body, reluctantly, a tree bending before the wind. His eyes
were darker, deeper. "No," he said final as the grave.

"There's
a poster, with …" Matthew choked off the words, wished he'd never opened
his mouth. A likeness. It was not as if this hadn't happened before. A stranger
spoke out of turn, looked crosswise at the wrong man, won too often at dice or
cards. Maybe not even so much as that. The town collected a lot of bounties.

"Who
looks to claim this bounty?"

Matthew
clamped his jaw shut and struggled to breathe as briars snared tight around
him. A lie would not serve and the truth would see him dead. He'd no doubt of
it. The silence echoed, and desperation kissed his tongue to a low form of wit.
"You'd have to ask the Mayor, sir."

Matthew
had stood in many men's graves. He'd not thought to dig his own. "Tis not
a fair thing you're asking."

The
man sucked on a tooth. "Perhaps not," he said. "Come on out of
there."

Hardly
able to credit his luck, Matthew reached for the box and scrambled up out of
the hole. He started forward, but the man waved him back to the edge.

"Stand
there and think a bit," said the man.

Matthew
opened his mouth to protest and snapped it closed, muddy fingers pressed across
his lips to still a tongue that already run too free. Bessie lifted her head
from the grass and turned to watch. He wondered what would happen if he ran for
her. He couldn't see that the man had any weapons.

A
glimmer of silver in the rain, the man tossed a knife with practised ease, four
other throwing knives at his belt and a longer blade. "What happens here
won't change what happens next." The man glanced back to the body, knife
twirling absently between his fingers. "That was my boy."

The
knife spun once more and stilled. The tip of the blade rested lightly in the
man's fingers, a final warning.

Matthew
stood on the edge of his grave. Rain washed the tears from his face and his
breath came in whistling gasps. A spurt of piss warmed his thigh and in the
same moment names burst between his fingers.

"Joe
Summers and Karl Leister."

Matthew
blinked and the knife was gone. The man started back through the gravestones.

Matthew
sniffed and stepped away from the grave's edge to falter at the edge of another
precipice. His eyes followed the man, weighed the darkness and made a choice. "There's
more had a part in it," he called.

The
man halted, turned back but made no comment. After a moment he smiled.
"Tell me, friend."